


never to touch (and never to keep)

by cerealmilk



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parenting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Love Confessions, Self-Esteem Issues, rated t for beau's language choice, takes place during ep 94
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22597300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerealmilk/pseuds/cerealmilk
Summary: "Does anybody have a crush on me?"Jester turns to her, grinning, the corners of her eyes crinkled with a look of fond expectancy.But Beau can't say anything.(or: what if Beauregard hadn't succeeded on the Zone of Truth save?)
Relationships: Jester Lavorre/Beauregard Lionett
Comments: 20
Kudos: 477





	never to touch (and never to keep)

**Author's Note:**

> i dont even know if this makes sense. i have not proofread it. i wrote all of this within 24 hours in a weird feverish haze. idk if i remembered any of the actual dialogue correctly. i dont know if the grammar makes sense or if any of it is coherent. i will post this and then immediately pass out
> 
> title taken from "let her go" by passenger, which is a beau pov beaujester song and people need to talk about that

Beau is pretty sure she's dying.

Trapped in a magical truth circle, half interrogating their potential maid and half trying to stymie the nauseous swirl of emotions tossing and turning in her chest.

When Jester had cast the spell, she hadn't thought much of it. After all, it was just an interrogation. Something to ensure the words coming from the young drow were the truth.

She hadn't known that it would take her emotional wall, built back from the ground up after Kamordah, and reduce it to cinders.

It's probably some cheesy shit like, _it's forcing you to be honest with yourself_ (which— yeah, no) or _it's revealing your true emotions_ (even worse).

So. Yeah. Between the anxiety clawing at her ribcage, the anger at Nott and Vidala and herself, the love she has for Jester and her wild intelligence burning her from the inside out—

She's pretty sure she's dying.

Jester's questions fly at Vidala rapid-fire, and, to her credit, the young girl answers each one dutifully and certainly.

But then the tiefling's questions shift away from Vidala, directed now at the group, and Beau has this awful sinking feeling in her stomach— the same one she had before entering the Lionett estate— like everything is about to go _wrong._

"Does anybody have a crush on me?"

Jester turns to her, grinning, the corners of her eyes crinkled with a look of fond expectancy.

As if any moment now, Beau will crack a joke; any moment now, Beau's voice will break the sudden tension that clouds the air; any moment now, Beau will laugh with an acquiescent smile and go back to prosecuting Vidala.

But Beau can't say anything.

She opens her mouth and hopes something light and deflective will come forth, but only a hoarse sound like metal plates scraping together leaves her.

And, really, what the fuck?

She'd felt her mouth shape the words, curling around them, but there's no air behind it. Everyone is staring at her.

Fear sweeps through her, jaw still working even soundless, her heart jumping in her chest like a fish on a line. The words are there, on the tip of her tongue.

_You know everyone has a crush on you._

But.

She can't say it if it's not the truth.

And thus, she finds that she can't say anything at all.

All of that happens in one terrible, terrible moment. Because in the next moment, Nott pipes up from across the circle.

"Yes."

Beau stares at her. Nott stares back, eyes blown wide, panicked, like she hadn't meant to say it. Like it had just slipped out with a mind of its own.

Beau hasn't felt this betrayed since her parents sent people to kidnap her.

Go fucking figure. You'd think she would have learned by now.

The rest of the circle explodes with noise.

"What do you mean?" Jester asks, gasping. "Nott, do _you_ have a crush on me?!"

Nott squawks indignantly. "What— no! I'm _married!"_

"But you just said—"

"That's because—"

Nott's gaze flicks back to her.

Beau can't move. She can barely breathe. Yasha follows where Nott is looking and her lips thin into a grim line. She feels stripped raw, naked, exposed beneath her gaze and god her face is so, so soft with understanding. With _pity._

Fjord, Caleb, and Caduceus are trying to pacify Jester, but Nott keeps staring, and Yasha keeps watching, and eventually Caduceus falls silent, Fjord and Caleb shortly thereafter.

All of their eyes are trained on her.

And she can't say anything.

Eventually, Jester notices, her gaze swinging around to peer at her, and she grins, playful, fangs peeking over her lip.

"Aw, Beau, don't tell me you're in _love_ with me."

It's the icing on top of the fucking cake. Beau's teeth grind together as she clenches her jaw, letting the anger drive her, if only to keep everything else at bay. She's falling apart, every carefully reassembled piece of her image slipping between her fingers.

It would be easy. _Of course, Jester. We all do._

Except her tongue is lead in her mouth and her stomach is churning, roiling, voice rusted in her throat, every half-formed lie left to wither in her lungs.

She should have known better. She should have _known better_ than to trust anyone with a secret as devastating as this.

She looks at Jester with a quiet desperation and prays to every god that she lets it go.

Jester's face shifts from an awkward smile into confusion, joy falling from her cheeks.

"Beau?" she says, soft and uncertain.

Beau can't stick around. Can't bear the thought of watching that concern morph into realization, and whatever comes after.

So, she does what she does best.

She runs.

Where she ends up is a small, vacant alleyway, dark and disconnected from the rest of the city. It’s not safe, by any means, but she just needs a moment to stop, to think, to catch her breath.

The stone is cool against her back as she leans against it, the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes. She’s not crying, she’s not, but it kind of feels like she’s going to. The amount of times she’s cried in the past few days alone is fucking ridiculous. It’s stupid.

 _She’s_ stupid. How many bad decisions can she make in the span of twenty-four hours? All she wants is to do right by her friends, her family, but she keeps fucking everything up. Her father had tried to warn her, days ago, years ago, that she was doomed to ruin everything she touched.

If she had listened to him more, or ever, would she have turned out better? Would she be good, be kind, the kind of person she needs to be, the kind of person she wishes she was?

(All she wants is to not fuck up every good thing in her life. But maybe that’s wishful thinking.)

A gasp behind her. Beau whirls around, tense as a caged animal, ready to knock out the fucker in two hits or less. 

It's just Vidala. The young girl seems just as startled to see her there, silver eyes wide, the purple tips of her hair swaying as she takes a quick step back.

"Ah," Vidala says. "You are Beau, correct?"

Beau makes a sound of confirmation, still reeling. They stare at each other for a long, long time, neither of them moving. Vidala looks nervous, but stays anyways. Beau is certain that it’s her fault.

"I'm sorry I was a dick," she rasps, louder, faster than she’d intended. "You seem nice. Smart. I know you'll take good care of the house, I just—"

"Stop," Vidala says, quiet, alarmed. "Stop. It's— it's fine, I think. There is a lot going on that I don't understand."

More silence. It's deafening. Beau's fingers curl and uncurl, and she thinks if she gets any more tense she is going to become a statue. Her thoughts whir at a million miles a minute. Why is Vidala here? And how did she find her?

( _"Does anybody have a crush on me?"_ )

Words grate their way up her throat.

"What happened?" she asks. She has to know. "What happened, after I left?"

Vidala eyes her warily. Beau can see it written all over her face— _do you really want to know?_

"Please," she adds.

Vidala sighs. "It was quiet for a long time," she says. "Then the small one, the goblin, said, 'I think I really messed up.' The tiefling got upset, and the room went very cold, and the pink-haired one told me to go get my things before returning to the house."

Fuck. Shit. A breath catches on the painful lump in her throat.

 _Always ruining everything,_ says the Thoreau Lionett in her head too stubborn to leave. And this is why she'd wanted them to let her go with the hag, why she'd offered herself up in the first place, because she'd known if she stayed too long she would fuck it up eventually.

The storm of emotions within her is bubbling dangerously close to the surface. She's so angry, so afraid, lost and confused and aching and so _sick_ with self-loathing that her stomach is turning, turning, turning.

It reminds her, keenly, of when Thoreau discovered her and Tori fucking in the prison cell. At the time, Beau had played it off as revenge, as pride, but the distant look of disappointment her father gave her cut her to the bone. Many of the skills she knows she has earned on her own, but her father taught her hatred.

And she hates, and hates, and hates, but she doesn't even know who or what she's hating anymore. She's pulling apart at the seams, and the anger is a reflex, she _knows,_ but the empty sadness that comes after is what terrifies her the most.

Fuck. She needs a drink. Several, preferably. She just wants to forget about the absolute shitshow her life has been for the past week.

Vidala's voice shakes her back into her body.

"The pink one also told me to tell you, if I found you, that you should go back to the house to talk."

"Vidala," Beau says, and now, past her distrust, she acknowledges the pleasant melody to the name. "I'm going to go get very, very drunk. Shit-faced. Drunk enough that I don't have to think, alright?"

Vidala nods, as if that had been what she was expecting. "What should I tell your friends?"

Beau swallows hard. It would be easy. She can still walk away, if she can gather the courage to bite the fucking bullet and do it.

"Tell them you didn't see me," she says, dropping a fistful of gold coins into the maid's hand. "And if they don't believe you, then tell them not to look for me. I don't want to be found."

Beau turns on her heel and stalks away.

Cloaked by shadow and with wind in her step, it doesn't take long to find a tavern, but she doesn't want the rest of the Mighty Nein to find her if they do peruse through the nearby settlements, so she skips a few bars until she's a safe distance away.

The building she stops in front of is haggard, but stable. A poorly painted naked woman marks the sign— the Ravished Dancer. It'll do.

She pushes open the door. The inside of the bar is warm, littered with people all nursing tall mugs of alcohol. They look rough, battle-worn, and drunk.

(This is home. More of a home to her than Kamordah has ever been.)

Beau slumps onto one of the stools at the bar counter. The dark-skinned bartender shoots her a look, assessing her, calculating, before nodding to himself and grabbing a bottle from the wall.

“Haven’t even told you what I want,” Beau says. The bartender shakes his head and lines up four shot glasses in front of her, filled with a dark ichor.

“No,” he says, heavily accented. “But I know what you need.”

God, is she an open fucking book to everyone tonight? Anger simmers in her stomach, at once aimless and self-directed, and in the heat of her frustration, she finds her resolve.

She is going to drink until either she passes out or she beats up everyone in the fucking bar.

Shooting the bartender a look, she knocks back the first shot and rolls the dice.

Nobody in the bar stood a chance. At least, none of the ones who had the balls to stand up and join the brawl. Thanks to the gracious losers, she didn't have to pay for a single drink the whole night. And, in all honesty, after the fourth round of shots, she’d stopped counting.

Her knuckles ooze blood onto the road underfoot as she staggers back towards the Xhorhaus. The world is blurry and spinning, and how she’s managed to stay upright this far, she has no idea. Her body is so pumped full of alcohol that she can’t feel the ache in her knuckles beyond a faint throb, can’t even feel her feet when they hit the sidewalk. Her face is buzzing, heart thumping lazily in her chest, maybe even dangerously.

But, she accomplished her goal. She can’t process a single coherent thought beyond _get back to the Xhorhaus,_ and really, that’s all she needed.

More than once, she has to ask for directions, and either out of recognition or fear, the people of Rosohna are very accommodating. One of them even offers to help her walk back, eyes alight with concern, but she waves them off and almost collapses with the effort of the movement.

She doesn’t realize she’s made it back to the house until she smacks into the door, but even then, her forehead only tingles afterwards.

Fuck. When did the door handles get so small? She can barely see them against the dark wood of the rest of the door, and grabbing them is harder, because her hand needs to go right but it keeps thudding against the wood just to the left of it.

After some time spent staring at the door handle and willing it to open, her frustration gets the better of her and she kicks the door in, hinges groaning and wood snapping somewhere along the frame. She closes it behind her, and yeah, she thinks the crookedness of it isn’t just from her skewed vision anymore, but that can be an issue for sober Beau to solve.

Somewhere in the bleary darkness of the house, there’s a sharp inhale of breath, a large shape moving towards her from one of the open side rooms. In the low light, she thinks it might be Fjord, unless Nott got really tall when she was gone.

“Beau!”

Yeah, Fjord. She leans against the wall and manages what might be a wave.

“‘s good,” she says, slow and clumsy as he comes fully into view.

Fjord’s nose wrinkles as he gets close, stopping a foot or so away.

“How much have you had to drink?”

Beau stares at the space between his eyes. All she can remember is the first round of shots and then punching some hulking goblinoid fucker in the jaw. She shrugs, staggers.

“I’unno. Lots.” The ‘s’ catches on her tongue, drags out.

Fjord’s brow pinches. “You’re bleeding.”

“Sh’see the other guy.”

“This is no time for jokes,” he snaps, and then he softens, sighing. “Do you have any idea how worried we were? How worried _she_ was?”

No, she really doesn’t. Her blank look must carry the message magnificently.

“She’s waiting upstairs,” he says, and that alone cuts through her haze like a blade of ice. Beau had hoped that Jester would be long-asleep by now. She stumbles again, this time almost falling if not for Fjord’s quick hand catching her by the shoulder. 

He mutters something under his breath, sounding dismayed. With a small flare of light, her knuckles stitch back together and the comfortable drunken numbness wrapped around her like a shell slips away. Without it, she feels splintered, hollow, fragile.

Fucking paladins.

"Talk to her," he says, patting her twice before turning and walking away.

“Fuck you,” she calls after him, but there’s no zeal behind it. She is drained of energy, and all she wants to do is fall into bed and sleep off whatever misery the alcohol hadn’t curbed, but there are several glaring roadblocks in that plan that make it a less than ideal choice.

Unfortunately, it’s really the only choice she has. So, she has about a minute and a half to think about what in the hell she’s going to tell Jester when she gets to their shared room.

Maybe she can brush it off as nerves, just plain old anxiety, bluff that she’d been unaffected by the spell and it was all just a fun joke between her and Nott. But the idea of lying to Jester, of lying to her like _that,_ tastes sour. She knows she wouldn’t be able to do it. Wouldn’t even want to.

She _doesn’t_ even want to. Jester deserves better than that. Maybe, if she’s lucky, Jester will focus more on her being back that the reasons why she’d left in the first place will be left in the dust.

If she’s lucky, Jester will let her stay.

The door looms in front of her, cracked open, but only barely. She’s out of time. Sucking in a breath between her teeth, she pushes it open.

Jester is sitting on the bed, sheets wrapped around her, fiddling with her hands nervously. Her tail is thumping beneath the blankets, the way it does when she gets particularly anxious. She looks up as the door creaks open, and her fraught expression parts with relief.

"Beau," she says, jerking upright. She’s hasty to untangle herself from the sheets, rushing across the room. Beau takes an instinctive step back, shoulders hiked up to her ears. Jester, bless her, notices the small movement, and halts midway towards her, arms falling back to her sides.

"We spent hours looking for you,” the tiefling says instead. There’s so much in her voice, too much to unpack. “We thought you'd left."

"I thought about it," Beau says honestly. Then, as Jester's words fully process: "Fuck, I told Vidala to tell you not to look for me. Didn't mean to waste your time."

Jester blinks at her. "Vidala told us she didn't see you."

And that was… what she’d paid her to do. She probably should have been more detailed with her instructions.

“Doesn’t matter,” Beau says, shrugging it off. “It’s—”

Jester’s expression hardens. “Don’t say it’s fine. It’s not.”

Beau swallows. “Alright.” She doesn’t know what else to say, though, so she settles for nothing, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She can still leave, if she wants to. The door is at her back, but there’s no temptation, only a deep, unbidden yearning that Jester won’t let her go.

She shakes away the thought. It is both unhelpful and unwanted.

(She wants to stay. Is that okay?)

Jester purses her lips, looking equal parts upset and concerned. “Let’s sit on the bed,” she decides, taking Beau by the hand and leading her there. Beau doesn’t resist. She aches for the touch.

Only when they are sitting down, side by side, touching at the shoulders and knees, does the anxiety truly begin to fester. Beau swallows again, bids her heart to calm the fuck down, fists her hands in the sheets.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she croaks. “I just— I just needed air. And a couple of drinks. There's no need to worry, okay?"

Jester breathes deep, in and out like she’s trying to calm herself down, and Beau can’t look at her. Can barely stand to look at the floorboards.

“Beau,” and fuck, she sounds so, so soft, so certain. “I’m always worried about you. Like, all the time. Not because I think you’re going to do something stupid— you’re really smart, most of the time— but because I care about you and want you to be safe.”

Beau’s throat tightens. She tries to clear it, unsuccessfully. “Well, uh, thanks, Jes, but you really sh—”

“Beau.” Beau thought she would never get tired of hearing her name slip from Jester’s lips, but now, it just makes her afraid. “Can you look at me?”

She doesn’t think she can, but she manages anyways, because Jester asked her to. Jester’s brows are drawn together, mouth slanted downwards, her violet gaze pinning Beau in place. One of her hands comes up, traces the line of Beau’s jaw, and Beau shies away from it. It’s not what she deserves. Jester frowns, but doesn’t press.

“Why did you run?” she asks. 

And this, at least, Beau had expected. No more beating around the bush.

“I’m gonna assume there are some things you’ve figured out on your own,” she says. Jester laughs. It sounds a little teary.

“Yeah,” the cleric says, wobbly now, and Beau doesn’t want to make her cry. She lets the guilt curl around her. Maybe it’ll make this easier. “I got so mad at Nott. You should have seen it.”

The corner of Beau’s mouth quirks upwards, but that anger is what she’d thought she would be returning to. Without it, all she has is the sinking feeling in her stomach, the sharp twinge of fear. All she can do is press forward, hoping, wanting.

“So.” Her mouth tastes like ash. “You know, then.”

“Yeah.”

Beau’s heart plummets. Fingers brush against her knuckles, their touch feather light.

“But— I want to hear it. From you. If that’s okay.”

Beau squeezes her eyes shut and loves her, loves her with all she has.

“I do,” her voice is janky, halting. She stops, starts again, rough and quiet. “Like you, that is. In a more than friend way.” She laughs, but it’s a hollow sound. “I have for a while, actually.”

Another touch at her cheek. This time, Beau leans into it, lets Jester turn her head until they’re looking at each other. The tiefling’s eyes glisten in the torchlight.

“How long?”

“I can’t—”

“Beau,” and fuck, Beau is so weak for her, would die for her, would do anything she asked. “Please.”

“It feels like forever,” she admits. “But I think— I knew, that night on the boat.”

Jester looks like she’s two seconds away from crying. “That’s so long ago. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Beau shrugs. “Jes, you— the Mighty Nein— you guys were the first good thing I’d had in so long. The first people that wanted to keep me around not because I was useful, but because you just… did. And then we got closer, we became this weird family, and Fjord and Caleb are like the siblings I never had, and Deuces is our weird friend, and Jes— fuck, Jes, you—” she sighs, bows her head. “I didn’t want to ruin it, but I guess that’s all I’ve been doing lately.”

“No,” Jester whispers. Her other hand comes up and she’s holding Beau’s face, hands cool and careful against her skin, and Beau can’t look anywhere else. “No, Beau. You didn’t ruin anything, okay? You never have. You’ve been dealing with so much since Kamordah. Don’t apologize for that.”

“But that’s not what this is about,” Beau rasps. “You know that.”

Jester goes quiet. In an instant, the gentle comfort of Jester’s hands on her face is suffocating.

“Just— just forget about it, okay?” She moves to pull away, to leave, even if she doesn’t know where else to go. “Nothing has to change. It’s fine. It’s not important.”

“It _is_ important. What you think, what you want, what you feel— it’s important, Beau.”

And Beau has never really felt important, never felt like it mattered who or where or what she was, what she was feeling, but when it comes from Jester, she can’t help but believe it. It makes her feel a little braver.

“I—” her eyes are burning, but despite that, she feels safe there, cracked open like an eggshell, her heart in Jester’s hands. “I want to stay, Jes. I want to—”

Here, she falters. Because this— this could ruin everything. But Jester is looking at her like she’s the fucking sun and that, somehow, is enough.

“I want to keep loving you. Is that okay?”

Jester thumbs over her cheeks, soft and open and lovely. Beau realizes, suddenly, that she’s crying. After so many years of learning how to cry quietly, her shoulders don’t even shake.

"Oh, Beau," Jester says, and there are stars in her eyes, a soft uncertainty laced with hope and none of this, fucking _none_ of it, seems real. "You love me?"

Beau huffs a laugh. “How could I not?”

Jester smiles, positively resplendent. “Good. Because I love you, too.”

Beau’s smile wavers. “You don’t have to say that, you know. I’ll manage.”

Jester rolls her eyes with an exaggerated sigh, the rest of her solemn concern slipping away. “Beau,” she says, and her smile is softer now, something small and private that Beau has never seen before. “Beau, in a _love_ sort of way.”

“Oh,” she breathes, and.

And.

What?

“But you—”

( _Aren’t you in love with Fjord?_ )

“But I—”

( _Aren’t I not good enough for you? Aren’t you mad at me?_ )

“Really?”

( _Because no one has ever, ever—_ )

“Yes,” Jester says, giggling, stroking her face like she’s something precious. “ _Yes,_ Beau!”

Beau’s expression is frozen somewhere between a smile and a sob, and she chokes on a breath, laughing and sobbing at the same time, head falling into the crook of Jester’s neck, and Jester’s hands wrap around her neck and hold her there.

“I love you,” she says, because she can, because it’s safe. “Fuck, I’ve loved you for so long.”

“Well,” Jester says, pulling back a bit to look at her, arms still hooked over her shoulders. “Thanks for being patient. I think I just needed time to figure it out.”

Beau could joke about it. _You just needed one lucky Zone of Truth._

Instead, she’s soft, tired, and in love. So, she smiles. Says: “Jes, I would have waited forever.”

Jester scoffs. “Ugh. That’s _way_ too long.”

And then she leans in and kisses Beau on the mouth.

For a moment, Beau is too stunned to do anything, really, and then Jester’s hands move back to her face, cupping her there, and Beau inhales sharply, finally able to move, and she opens her mouth to take Jester’s bottom lip between her teeth.

It’s not a _Tusk Love_ sort of kiss. No tongues going down throats or getting lost in the throes of passion. There’s a slow, sweet kind of lethargy to it, clumsy and delicate. Beau guides Jester down onto the bed, and they kiss a while longer, but they go no further than that. Beau, after all, is very tired, drained emotionally and physically, drunk on happiness. 

They stop eventually, so Beau can change into sleepwear. When she returns to the bed, Jester kisses her on the cheek, and Beau returns the favor on Jester’s brow.

“I’m still mad at Nott,” Jester admits as Beau is pulling the sheets over herself. She stops, glancing at Jester. To be fair, Beau’s pretty mad at Nott herself, but Jester being mad doesn’t really make much sense.

“Why’s that?”

Jester huffs.

“You should have told me you loved me when _you_ wanted to. Not because some stupid spell exposed you.”

Beau considers this for a moment as she sinks into her pillow. It smells a little like dust and mildew.

“I might not have ever told you,” she says. “Not for a while, at least. I was really convinced you like Fjord.”

“I thought I did, but I also thought that, like, I had to, you know?”

Beau knows. Better than anyone.

“Also,” Jester continues before she can say anything. “Have you _seen_ the way he’s been fawning over Caduceus?”

(For the first time in years, she believes, truly and one-hundred percent, that everything is going to be okay.)

**Author's Note:**

> beauregard "i have repressed every emotion in my body" lionett
> 
> also, for context on this whole thing: i started it when i'd just watched the entirety of the 4 hour ep 94 stream and can i just say. kinda disappointed. NO ONE talked to beau seriously and every time marisha looked like she was gonna say something or needed to be told something people were just. moving on. every emotional scene was dampened. beaujester got CRUMBS. my girls were ROBBED. i had to fix that. as a treat


End file.
